Page 15 of Hard Bred

“I’m not—” I start to say, but then I realize that I can’t deny it. Tears fill my eyes as I realize the true depth of my feelings for Brady. “Oh.”

Gran smiles and discards a card from her hand. “It’s your turn, hon.”

A few days later, I wake to an unfamiliar sound. Blinking sleep from my eyes, I peer out my bedroom window. The storm has finally broken, pale sunlight glinting off banks of pristine snow. The world looks clean and new, like anything might be possible.

But what is that sound?

And then I see him: Brady, bundled up against the cold, shoveling our walkway. His breath clouds in the morning air as he works, each movement powerful and precise. The sight of him makes my chest ache with overwhelming emotion.

I don’t even think about it. Like that, I’m flying out of the house and running outside in my pajamas, snow crunching under my feet. The cold air bites at my skin, but I barely notice. Brady looks up at the sound of my rushed footsteps, his face breaking into a big, gorgeous smile that warms me straight through.

“Claire—” he starts, but I’m already throwing my arms around him. He’s solid and real against me, smelling of cold air and wool and him. God, I’ve missed him so much.

His arms wrap around me, but then he pulls back with a frown. “Jesus, you’re freezing. Get back inside.”

I laugh, pressing closer instead. “I missed you too, you worrier.”

Brady insists on finishing the shoveling while I get dressed. When he comes in, stamping snow from his boots, Gran already has breakfast waiting. It feels a little unreal, seeing him at our kitchen table, his large frame making everything look smaller. But it feels right, too.

“These biscuits are excellent, ma’am,” Brady says, and I hide my smile behind my coffee cup. He’s so polite with Gran.

“Call me Lorraine,” Gran insists. “And the secret is to use very cold butter. Claire never has the patience to make them properly.”

“Hey!” I protest, but they’re both laughing, and I quickly join them.

After breakfast, I bundle up properly—reassuring Brady that I’m wearing plenty of layers when he asks—and follow his truck back to the ranch in my pickup. The familiar drive looks so different, transformed by the snow into something out of a fairy tale. When I park in my usual spot and step out onto the snow-packed gravel, breathing in the brisk air, something settles in my chest.

And then I realize what that feeling is. It feels like coming home.

Brady and I dive straight into work. There’s plenty to do after days of heavy snow. The horses need extra attention, and Brady and I move from stall to stall, carefully checking on each of them, adjusting blankets, and making sure everyone’s comfortable.

“Hey there, beautiful,” I murmur to Lucky, one of our more anxious mares. She’s wearing the pink blanket I picked out for her, and I smile as I remember how Brady had rolled his eyes at the color but bought it anyway. Now he’s the one who always makes sure she’s wearing it.

The physical labor feels good after being cooped up for so long. Breaking ice in water troughs, hauling extra hay, clearing paths between buildings—it’s hard work, but satisfying. Brady and I fall easily into our rhythm, moving around each other like we’ve done this for many years more than we have.

It all feels soright.It’s not just the way we work together, anticipating each other’s needs and sharing the load. It’s deeper than that. Brady sees me—really sees me. He values my opinions about the horses, trusts my judgment. When I suggest a different approach to his usual method, he listens.

The hours fly by as we work side by side. At one point, I catch myself watching him lift a heavy feed bag, admiring how his muscles flex beneath his winter gear. He catches me watchinghim, and I just smile at him, not looking away. I love the play of muscles in his arms, the strength in his shoulders. I love how those powerful hands of his can be so gentle when needed.

I lovehim.

By the time we finish our outdoor work, the sun is setting and we're both ready to warm up. Brady's house welcomes us with the crackle of the wood stove and the lingering scent of coffee from this morning.

Brady heads upstairs to change, telling me he’ll be right back. As I peel off my layers of snow-dusted clothing, I look over at the way his boots and mine now sit paired together by the door, and my heart squeezes tight.

And then something else catches my eye—the leather journal I gave him for his birthday, lying open on the kitchen counter. I pause in the middle of unwinding my scarf, struck by the sight of it.

My heart swells at the sight. His handwriting fills several pages, ink flowing across the cream-colored paper. I don’t peek at what he’s written—that’s private, none of my business—but just knowing he’s using it, that he’s found value in my gift, makes me feel even closer to him. Brady’s not a man who opens up easily. This small evidence that he’s trying, that he’s letting his walls down bit by bit, means everything.

I head to his bedroom, finding him shrugging out of his own winter gear. My eyes trace the strong lines of his back, admiring how his thermal shirt clings to his muscles. When he turns, his eyes are warm, locked on me in a way that feels deliciously possessive.

Without hesitation, I cross the room to meet him, wrapping my arms around his broad shoulders. He pulls me close, one large hand spanning my lower back.

“Fuck, I missed you,” he murmurs against my hair.

“Missed you more.” I press closer, breathing him in. “Let’s not do that again.”

His chuckle rumbles through his chest. “You could always stay here for good.”

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